The Many Deaths of Dolores Umbridge
by NhaTrang
Summary: Some write novels for NaNoWriMo; I wrote this paean to everyone's least favorite HP character. I'll churn out a death a day until I get tired, or the elves do. You'll understand. Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be Stupefied; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be AKed; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be Kissed. Rated M for violence.
1. Prologue

The light in the chamber was vivid blue, lines and curves of sapphire flame against the drowning sable of the stone. It was a pattern ... shifting, wavering, as elusive as the images through the smoke and distortions over a campfire.

Only one of the elves could read the pattern, and they were all gazing at her. In the light, her violet eyes were black as the chamber walls, and revealed nothing. Her sensuous mouth curved in a half-smile. "Yes. It's possible," she said quietly, turning towards their crowned leader.

"Fair enough, sister," he murmured, touching the tip of his steepled fingers to his lips. " _Melyanna_ , raise the lights." The elf woman at his side did, before replacing her hand in the crook of his arm.

Seven sat at the table – the first speaker taking her own seat – five elves, two humans. "So," said the youngest elf, giving her wavy golden hair a toss, "when do we start?"

"How about _yesterday_?" hissed one of the humans. She could easily have been mistaken for a portrait of innocence: a sweet pale heart-shaped face, a bright cloud of copper curls ... provided one ignored the blazing fury from her eyes. "Marya _showed_ us: children being tortured and slaughtered, children doing all the fighting, and the _so-called_ –" her voice dripped acid contempt "– adults worse than useless. You can't tell us there's any _question_ of going."

"Softly, love," replied the tallest elf, in a deep bass voice that nonetheless rumbled with anger.

Mirith Elyanwë, High King of the Ilkorendi, gazed over his still-steepled fingers. "No. Of course not, Elaina. We ride the dream-roads tonight. For this _Hogwarts_."

( - * - )

It really wasn't a battle; there was scarcely any meaningful resistance. Alcelor and Verella, father and daughter each bearing a Great Weapon, and at the head of eighty Ilkoren champions, swept into the Great Hall like a prairie fire. Elaina's gift for being disarmingly soothing did much to keep the children quiet in the aftermath, even if the _Woodwraith_ enchantment Celebryani wrought had left them able to grab their wands. The green-robed _Nestaryn_ were already among them, healing the bloody runes etched into the hands of many of the children.

And before the indomitable fury of the High King, none could stand.

Certainly not the fat, pink-clad apparition who cowered at the center of the dais.

 _"You_ – you are the, er, 'Headmistress,'" intoned the High King.

Taking a deep breath, and visibly gathering the tatters of her dignity, Dolores Umbridge straightened up. "Hem, well, yes, I am," she replied. "Appointed by the Minister of Magic himself! What is the mean –"

 _"I did not give you leave to ramble."_

The elf's voice held all the music and mildness of an avalanche ... and for a moment, he was again wreathed in the devouring violet-grey aura into which every spell fired at him had vanished. "You will speak when I command it. Not before. You are a murderer. Justice means nothing to you. You would set children loose in a perilous world without knowledge or protection. All that matters to you is your own arrogance, your own position." The scent of ozone was in the air now, and a faint crackling of electricity. "You are a vile thing, and if I visited a thousand deaths upon you, it would be a fate more merciful than you merit.

"But I lack the time. I can only spare a few dozen. Let the tale of your punishment be whispered in hushed tones around fireplaces for centuries to come, as a warning to those who would torture children."


	2. Death By Quidditch

_"By what right –" McGonagall had begun "– do you have to just walk in and take over?"_

 _The High King turned his head halfway in her direction. "By what_ _ **right**_ _? Do you pretend, madam, to be a realm under law? When you jail innocent men without trial, your agents run unchecked, and the dictator you appointed to rule over you can order people's souls stolen on his own authority? Or, perhaps, of honor, when your broadsheets will print any lie or slander with impunity? Of mercy, when you allow the Unlife to torture your prisoners to insanity?_

 _"No, madam. You pretend that your lies and delusions are real, and that what you do is right if only you say so loudly and often. This is not the Ilkorendi way. I claim no right here save the conquerer's." He extended one hand towards the cowering Umbridge, and opalescent flame erupted from his ring ..._

( - * - )

Dolores Umbridge screamed without knowing quite why, until her senses steadied to clear her swimming vision. Her arms and legs were pinioned, spread eagled, each attached to a separate chain. Each chain led to a separate ... hippogriff, that was what those filthy birds were called. Like the one dear Cornelius was foully prevented from putting down by the criminal Sirius Black. She was still sure they'd bring Black to justice. This time he'd be Kissed, and no mistake.

The wall of sound resolved itself into cheering, and she opened her gummy eyes more widely. She was in the center of the damned Quidditch pitch. Such a useless game, children could get hurt, and the time was better used for study.

 **"** **Begin,** **"** called out a voice like the pealing of thunder, and Umbridge screamed again, in anguish, as the hippogriffs leaped skyward – her joints like white fire with the sudden tugging. The animals (curiously enough, each clad in the colors of one of the Hogwarts Houses) strove this way and that, pinwheeling around the pitch, her maddened howls drowned out in the cheering.

Before too long, a stout hippogriff wrenched free of its brethren, soaring skyward with a gore-spraying leg dangling behind it. Those students wearing black and yellow leapt up and down with jubilation, cheering it on, as bets began to be paid off in the stands. The remaining three wheeled, and started to eat what was left behind.


	3. She's A Witch!

" _What the_ _hell_ _are you pointy-eared freaks_ _doing_ _?" cried the sneering blond boy. "That's our Headmistress! You lot are for it, when the Ministry finds out!"_

 _Princess Marya Elyanwë was darkly amused. The boy's outburst wasn't the first from the Slytherin table, nor the most insulting. The children were restive and getting bolder, and sooner or later, one would discover that Celebryani's_ Woodwraith _enchantment had lapsed. She knew which one that would be: certain advantages came with being the Empire's greatest Diviner. Her nephew was already in position, a binding spell at the ready._

" _We rather hope they do before too long," she answered. "There'll be far fewer casualties if they send their forces out to us than if we're forced to storm the Ministry."_

" _The Aurors will crush you!" shouted another student._

 _Marya sighed. They were children, and children were foolish. That was the way of things. But how could they know? That thousands had fallen at Cenedril? That at Caer Escal, the Snowviolet had quite literally run red with the blood of the_ tens _of thousands of slain? What could such as these know of war?_

( - * - )

Umbridge opened her eyes. Why ... she was free! That nasty giant house-elf was gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

She was also not at Hogwarts.

Her gaze narrowed as she took in her surroundings. It was like a scene out of that Binns ghost's books. A cluster of huts, all wattle and daub and thatch. A crossroads of mud, unpaved. Filth everywhere. And the smell! Intolerable! A disapproving grimace crossed her face as she whipped out her atomizer, spraying cologne all about her in an acrid cloud.

The shout of dismay behind her alerted her that she was not alone.

Umbridge whirled about. Before her was an apparition all of a piece with the tableau: a lean, gangling, low fellow, clad in filthy dun colored rags. Quite out of reflex, she sprayed him right in the face. "And that's for _you_ , you horrid Muggle!" she hissed.

He cried out again, staggering backwards, dropping his ... his – whatever weird farm implement it was – to clap his hands to his eyes. A similarly clad blowsy wench dashed out of the nearest hut. "Aelric! Aelric! What has happened? What is that reek?" she cried. More filthy Muggles came out of huts to stare.

"It was 'er," the man hissed from between his hands. "The one not covered in filth like the rest of us!"

"She cast a spell on you?" gasped the woman.

"A witch?" cried another.

"A witch? A witch! She's a witch!" the crowd started to howl.

" _Yes, I am_ ," growled Umbridge. She had had _quite_ enough of this medieval nonsense. Her wand was already out, and jabbing towards the crowd. "And you rotten Muggles keep your distance!"

"A witch! She's a witch!"

"Aren't I just, you wretches? _Stupefy!"_ A bolt of red light shot from Umbridge's wand, and a Muggle holding a hayfork dropped like the proverbial sack of potatoes. Tittering, she dropped another, and another. Those in front of her wavered, and began to flee.

But there were full forty of them, and only one of her. Umbridge cried out as a wildly flailing peasant dashed her wand from her hand with his staff, and a moment later saw her firmly pinioned by the mob. Up close, their stench was near to unsupportable. "Let me GO, you brutes! I am Senior Undersecretary to –"

"A _witch_! She's a witch! **Burn her!** "

"''Ere, lads, let's haul 'er up t' Sir Bevidere!"

"Naw, Edwyn, d'ye remember? 'E hared off with that king fellow! We'll have t'do it our own selves! BURN HER!"

It was but a few moments before the cheering Muggles had seized her to a stout striped pole – ignoring her protests all the while – and merrily heaped faggots of wood about her.

"I dunno," said one peasant, dourly, "Bain bad luck t'burn a witch on a Maypole."

"It ain't May no more," responded another. "She's a witch! She said so 'erself! BURN HER!"

Soon the flames crackled and danced, and the merry banter of the crowd was punctuated by the screams of the pink-clad witch as her flesh blackened and bubbled. "'Ere, witch-toasted sausage, three to a farthing," called out one enterprising villager, setting up several pig-on-a-sticks to add their dripping fat to the witch's pyre. Umbridge's last sight – before her eyeballs seared from her face – was the Muggle using her wand to impale a sausage, and setting it before the blaze.


End file.
